After the end
by Tantz
Summary: After the final battle, there are pieces to be picked up. Sequel to 'In the end'. **Complete**
1. Default Chapter

A/N Hey there. Here you go. Sequel, starring Severus Snape, and Harry Potter. Keep in mind that I am writing this in a more or less episode mode. So if you want to see how these two would react under particular circumstances, leave your idea in a review and I will try to come through. Again thank you all for your reviews. 

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I am in a foul mood. Which is not something entirely earth shattering about me. I have been in foul mood for years. But this time I am in a foul mood even when most of what I thought I wanted has come to pass: I am redeemed in the eyes of the wizarding world. Nobody thinks of me as a dormant tumor in the Hogwarts staff. Nobody thinks I am a double faced untrustworthy greasy son of a bitch. Well. I don't know about the greasy part. I am not exactly obsessed about washing my hair all the time. 

But I am in a foul mood. First off, I have moved out of the dungeons. Partly of my own accord, but mostly I was manipulated. I never said I wanted to be Poppy's replacement. I look around the infirmary. It's too sunny and cheerful to suit my mood, and lately it is far too crowded. I feel the only competent person here. Since most of the staff perished or was severely injured, I have been forced to take assistants from the students. I wish so badly Granger was alive. At least she would not expect me to tell her everything. I am stuck with Ron Weasley, who gets queasy even with the slightest indication of blood or vomit. 

It is surreal how I long for Lupin's presence lately. He is very eager to help me when he is here, and he knows what he's doing, except when he's around Potter. He becomes completely useless when the skinny boy even so much as moans. He's afraid to touch him as if he's made of china. I can't find it in me to scowl at him, however. Something, that thankfully is definately not the case with Ronald Weasley. 

It's so ironic. After Lupin eagerly spread the word about how Potter was salvaged by me, I can get away with so many things that otherwise would have been interpreted quite differently. However, with Albus missing, this newfound leniency towards my person is unimportant. I am not eager to test its limits, to scandalize my peers or even savour it as I once dreamt I would. All in all, I am much more... tolerant, at least. It is as if Albus is watching me, seeing what I will do now that he's not there to keep me in check. And I cannot disappoint him. It's frustrating, but inescapable. 

I feel beyond tired, and I am working without actually thinking about what my hands are automatically doing. Brewing potions, casting some basic healing charms, wrapping bandages, and brewing even more potions. I am not sure when was the last time I slept. I don't complain though. If I sleep, chances are that nightmares will visit me, and I can do without that. 

"P-professor Snape, sir?" 

I shut my eyes, inhaling the fumes of the bone-setting potion. 

"Yes, Weasley?" 

"Harry has started to sweat. You told me to, uh, notify you." 

"Obviously, Weasley. Come over here. Keep steering this clockwise. Don't stop until it turns light pink. If I return and find it orange, I will make you drink the cauldronful." 

He nods quickly, and it's amusing that he is not angry at me, even though he believes I would act on my threat. I sincerely hope the batch doesn't turn orange. I hate the bone-setting potion fumes. But I instantly get inspired. I'll have Weasley brew it if he botches this one. 

I make my way through the rows of beds. The injured are so many that St Mungo's couldn't possibly accomodate them all. The light cases have been transferred here. The serious ones - and they are many- that could not be served at St Mungo's have been transported to other big hospitals abroad, especially in France. Several cots have been charmed to hover above those on the ground, so that more people could be in the infirmary and I can hear them all. Which is not the best way I can spend my time, but here I am. 

I can't help a wave of relief as I pass from one specific bed. Minerva is sleeping there. I thought her dead, but here she is recovering from several breaks and internal injuries. She had been my own teacher, and one I didn't particularly appreciate, but she is a strong and reliable one, as steadfast as Albus and Hogwarts needs her. She is also Head of Gryffindor, and she probably knows Harry much more than myself. I am glad she is alive. 

Potter has broken sweat. That is good, but has to be controlled. I lift him up gently, slipping my hand underneath his back so that I will put pressure on his spine and not his ribs that are still healing. He sighs and his eyes crack open a little bit. I never thought that I would be so glad to see those reproachful green eyes again, but I am. 

"Goodmorning Potter. Drink this and don't even think of talking." 

My voice is again emotionless and cutting, but I have the distinct feeling it is somewhat different because it wakes Potter up some more and his eyes try to focus on me with a little surprise. He drinks the potion I give him and sighs as I know the comfort spreads through his body. 

"S...irius?" he asks. I do hope he's asking me where he is and has not mistaken me for him. But I am not too certain about that. 

"Quiet, Potter. I don't want you bleeding again." I say when I intended to ask him what part of 'don't talk' he didn't understand. He looks so fragile, and I know Black is dead and he probably does not. I can't manhandle him now. 

It's maddening! 

Fortunately, Potter falls asleep. I expose his ribcage area again, and start rubbing another, paste like potion I had made two days ago, when he was still feverish and slightly delirious. It will hopefully ease his breathing and aid the healing process without too much magical interference through charms. Any method, however time consuming is preferable to a heart straining charm. His heartbeats are still a little irregular and far too many. I need to bring them down to normal, strong beats like a boy's in his late teens should be. 

It's then that it first happens. I think I am going to cough, and so bring my hand over my mouth. Instead of air against my palm, I feel a sticky wetness. Blood. I quickly look around to see if anyone has noticed. Fortunately, Lupin is not here to smell the blood, Weasley is still stirring meticulously and everyone else is sleeping. I quickly wipe my hand and mouth. I cannot afford to become one of the sick, not when so many depend on me. I need to stay standing and healthy until at least Minerva and Potter are healthy. Minerva needs to be awake enough to run the school, and Potter just needs to be alive to give courage to those left standing after that dreadful battle. Hell, he needs to be alive to give some courage to -me-. 

I walk to my stash of potions and choose a dark greenish one. The Panacaea. A degenerate version of the all-healing potion the Ancient Greek wizards had managed to brew. The original recipe was lost through the ages. This potion does not heal everything. It heals quite a few ailments, but not the serious ones. I am just buying myself time. Then I saunter towards Weasley to harass him. 

"Well, Weasley?" 

"It's... not orange, sir." 

I look at the cauldron full of bubbling liquid. Weasley has done well, but he doesn't have to know it. 

"So I see, Weasley. Call Lupin, and be snappy." 

The boy obediently runs off. He has grown tall like his older brothers. And far more serious and mature, I think. As most of the wizarding families, his has not escaped the toll of the war. But it has not been taxed as much as others. All the Weasley children are still alive. It is the father that passed on. I suppose that providence gives everyone the burden that they can carry, not the one that will break them. Or most of the times. I don't know if Potter can carry all that he will be called to carry pretty soon. 

Lupin comes in, looking at me with slight fear that I am calling him because his protege is dying. 

"Potter's fine, Lupin. Stop giving me that look." I snap at him and he breathes. I have the distinct feeling that he doesn't take into consideration my tone of voice as a rule. 

"How can I help you, Severus?" he says. 

"I need to go to Ollivander's. I don't have a wand. Stay here and make sure Weasley doesn't blow anything up. I should be back by noon." 

Diagon Alley is far less crowded than it should have been, and there is a mixed atmosphere of joy and grieving, of partying and sorrow. But most of all, it feels _clean_. There is no darkness looming, unseen, over anyone. There is no fear. And that is a grand feeling. I cough some more blood into my handkerchief, but the potion is working and it's much less. Soon any blood spitting must stop until the effects wear off. I make my way to Ollivander's. 

The old man is just as I remember him when I had walked into his shop for my first wand. He comes over and offers me a chair. 

"Severus Snape. It's an honour." he says and turns to go fetch wands. I stand there slightly taken aback again. Nobody has ever told me that before. It almost makes me emotional. What a change from the cold or hostile or downright accusing stares I had been receiving ever since I was 15. 

The feeling passes quickly though, because Ollivander treats me as a bloody first-year. I must have tried at least 20 damn wands with the rediculous Wingardium Leviosa. I just wanted a wand to myself and not a loan from Potter, especially when Potter is out cold. But no; I have to get an exact match. I have to lose 40 minutes of my time before Ollivander assents to sell me a 11-inch holly with dragon heartstring. I look at it. It is new and feels like the first snow in winter. No Unforgivables have been cast with this; it's a new start for me. My frustration evaporates. 

"You have chosen a strong wand," Ollivander is telling me. "I believe you will use this one better than your former one." 

I like what he tells me, and I nod my thanks to him. I feel I am walking with a different stride. Just like the air in Diagon Alley, I somehow feel cleansed myself. 

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Right. The Sequel's on, people! I wouldn't trust me to make this entirely.... painless. *very evil grin* So, tell me if you like this one as much as you did the intro. Any suggestions or indications welcome. I am writing this primarily for your amusement, since you asked me so vehemently, therefore... I am open. ;) 


	2. Questions, questions

A/N: Hello again. I update quickly, don't I? How are you going to reward me for this, hmmm? 

As for some of my reviewers: 

Viscountess Babbles- On: Me? In trouble? Bring it on! Severus can die pretty much without any problem of consent on his side, at least the way I portray him... heh. But then again, frustrating him IS one of the best past times... or isn't it? hmmm... *dangerous musings* 

Jaimyns Fire: ((cool pen name *wink wink*)) I have neither adopted or kidnapped Snape.... I think he wanted to collaborate with me so that certain differences between his personality and my own character Aaron's would be... settled. He is here of his own accord. *coughs* 

Sparrow: Depression is Snape's middle name, isn't it? Apart from Alexander, which I have read in so many fics. It does suit him *nod nod*... 

By the way, I forgot to pu the disclaimer on Chapter one, so I put it here: I don't own Harry Potter, and do not intend to. Aaron is enough. *heh* 

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I return to the castle with my new wand and my changed outlook. Everything is changed, so different. I feel as if the whole world is re-defining itself, and adjusting so that the vaccum created by Voldemort's death will be compensated. I sincerely hope not in the same manner. I am definately not up for another decade of continuous war. For me, the war had not taken a break with the events at Godric's Hollow. I was never under the fickle illusion that everything had been corrected. First off, everyone kept reminding me of what I had been, regardless my return to the side opposing the darkness. Second off, the dark mark never ceaced to feel alive and leeching off my very life force, just like it did from every Death eater. I suspect that Voldemort was kept alive all the years before his re-ascension by leeching small amounts of the Deatheaters' lives through the Dark Mark. It's faded and dead now. That was how I knew that Potter had succeeded when Voldemort fell. It felt like that small piece of flesh was returned to my possession again. 

And somehow, that little portion of flesh was what linked me back to humanity. 

I am not sure if I like that or not. I have started to care far too much about what people tell me or how they react to me. I was free of such weaknesses before. But now there are few people that can not put a chink in the armor that had protected me so well through a nightmare that lasted half my lifetime or perhaps even more. 

The castle is empty. The students were sent home for the rest of this half month, and there there are the Christmas Holidays. I hope that that will be enough time to get a semblance of routine back, to make Hogwarts what it was again. But without Albus, it seems it will never be the same again. 

Of course, it existed before Albus, and nobody thought that Albus was going to forever be its Headmaster... but I didn't expect him not to be so during all of my lifetime... or at least to be -alive- through all my lifetime. He was a genius! He had known everything, he could see right to the cockles of the most well-guarded heart-- and I should know. Why did he allow himself to die instead of thinking a less altruistic way of protecting the castle after its wards were torn down? 

I feel completely unintelligent as I muse over these things. I know the answers to all of these questions. I should be focusing on the questions I do not have any answers for: What will happen to Harry Potter? What can I possibly tell him if he wakes before Minerva does? And what will I do with the rest of my life now? 

All my life had been actually revolving around Hogwarts of Albus. As a student I wanted to prove myself to be a genius, I wanted to test Albus and measure myself against him, I wanted fame and power through that process. Later on as a Deatheater, I was still trying to prove that I was better than Albus and that I could bring him down along with everything he protected... until I realised what that meant when put in practice. It was the most humiliating moment in my life when I realised that I had sold my soul for a childish, audacious contest in which I was the only one competing. I had crawled back to Albus, humbled in this way and defeated, because he had the wits and control to see what I had realised only when I put my hands on it, like a blind man led to a surface he has revised and theoretically knows what it is like, but has never actually experienced it. 

It was ironic that I survived that mentor. That was what he was. I can never measure up to him, and frankly, after all this time and all I have seen, I do not want to or feel the need to. 

But what do I tell Potter? Hi? Goodmorning? You're awake? 5 points from Gryffindor? 

I sigh defeatedly, but even that is a mistake. The rushing air triggers a reaction of continual coughing and I have to stop midway to the infirmary. I inspect my hand and smile. No blood comes forth. The potion is in full effect. Which means that I have to be sharp and quick. The Panacaea has no specific time limit-- its effect depends on the severity of the illness from a week to months. And if, after wearing off, it has not managed to heal the illness it attacks, the said illness will render the patient in a worse state than before. 

I walk brusquely to the infirmary, and I am pleasantly surprised. 

"Good afternoon, Severus." Minerva tells me weakly, but with all of her uptight demeanour that used to anger me so much. I manage to smile at her, ever so slightly. 

"Good afternoon, Minerva. You are up early." 

Lupin looks at me surprised. I have spoken amiably to her. But I am so relieved to see her awake, to hear her reprimanding voice. She is reliable, and she is the Headmistress now. I will have a considerably lesser burden on my shoulders now, and I won't have to enter Albus' quarters to retrieve papers or anything else I needed to help the authorities or the parents in his place. 

Minerva snorts and huffs. "I dare say I am not. Remus here has told me all that has happened the days I was unavailable. I will help you from now on." she says and throws the cover to the side. I am proud of the healing job I did even though I am not officially licenced as a medi-wizard. She had used her multibly fructured arm to throw that cover to the side, and it had not even bothered her now. 

I nod curtly and do not succumb to the urge to tell her to stay put for another day, as Poppy used to tell me the multiple times I had ended up injured in her care. She knows full well the extend of her energy. I hand her a vial of potion from my stash. 

"For the pain, or lightheadedness." I tell her when she questions me with an arch of an eyebrow. She nods and smiles at me again. Minerva never used to smile at me. After Albus' death, she never was milder than scowling when addressing me. 

"Thank you, Severus." she says evenly, but it seems that by taking the vial from my hand she makes a promice, to herself or to me or to the very walls of this infernal infirmary about something. Then she walks brusquely off, completely unaware that her gown falls just a few centimeters over her knees. She doesn't look that bad in a mini skirt. 

I turn and see that Lupin is smirking himself gazing at Minerva marching off. He looks at me, his eyes still pained but less desperate than when I had seen him the evening I brought Potter back from the battlefield. 

"Did you get a new wand?" he asks me. 

"Apparently so, Lupin, since it was the reason I went to Diagon Alley in the first place." 

"I sent Ron to bed." 

"Good; I will not have to tolerate his ineptness for the rest of the day." 

Lupin looks at me again. I highly dislike him looking at me, ever since that incident in the Shrieking Shack. His eyes have the tint of the werewolf, and they penetrate you just as well as any fang would. I snort and attempt to walk away. Still a milder reaction than usual. But Lupin follows me around as I inspect the beds, purposefully leaving Potter's for last. I sigh. 

"Has anyone appointed you to be my shadow, perchange?" I throw at him over my shoulder. 

"As a matter of fact, I am you assistant. I sent away Linda as well. You are wearing them down and you will end up treating them as well, Severus." 

I hate it even more from being stared at when Lupin's right. I have only kept two assistants that I can trust will follow simple orders and carry them out as I tell them to. Linda Mills and Ron Weasley. I did attempt to keep them off my personal schedule, but I indulged my usual behavior and did not take their needs into consideration more than I did mine. 

"True." I hear myself saying without thinking. "So hand me that basin over there already-- or do I have to tell you everything as well?" 

At nightfall Weasley and Linda return to their duties. I take my leave to eat. I hadn't realised I had not eaten for almost two days. My stomach is loudly protesting. I start walking to the dungeons, but I decide against it midway there; I can't go back to an environment that will trick me into imagining Albus alive all over again. I would end up expecting him to call me up for a game of chess, and I don't want to relive the disappointment. 

I end up eating at the main dining room, sitting alone at the Slytherin table. It's the least reminiscent-friendly area for me. When I used to sit here, I cared not about who the Headmaster was. I eat some broth and vegetables. I don't want to stuff myself or burden my organism with heavy food. I did not stop to diagnose myself and see what I have. I am not completely idiotic nor so self punishing to wish for worse torture than will be waiting for me when the potion ebbs. 

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One up, one to go! And guess what! I am still writing! I might even give you the third chapter, when I will expect Harry to wake up, or start to at least. 

Now, about my reward... 


	3. awakenings

A/N: I have only one thing to say: *drumroll* 

Oh, and yes: I so completely do not own Harry Potter and all the other characters. 

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I wake up with a start. I am still at the dining hall, the empty soup bowl near me. I had nodded off half lying on the table. Nothing and nobody had disturbed my sleep. I hear birds tweeting outside. The enchanted ceiling informs me it's near dawn. I have slept for almost 10 hours and -nothing- disturbed me. It hits me with the effect of a careening bludger: 

I had a sleep free of nightmares. 

I walk to the infirmary still stunned by the mere fact. I had used no sleeping potion. I had no other force than my tiredness to induce sleep. And it had succesfully been induced. I had forgotten the different quality of waking up from a sleep you didn't bring on to yourself. I feel far more strengthened and quite a bit less irritable. Of course knowing destiny, I am being so graced so that I will face some new crisis. 

My experience does not fail me. 

It is faint as a sound, but I have learnt to discern sounds as a means of survival. Someone is crying and trying to be quiet about it. It isn't Potter, since I am right over his bed and I can see he's sleeping, obvlivious to his surroundings. It comes from the deepest end of the infirmary, which is still in the shadows as the light slowly disperses the darkness of winter. 

For a second I am tempted to ignore whoever it is that is shedding tears and go about my business until the sniffling stops and the person in shape enough to hide their feelings from me. But my self does not obey me as blindly as in the past, and I walk over and see who it is. 

Ron Weasley. 

"What is it now?" I ask him quietly, so as not to disturb any of the patients. He looks up, genuinly mortified for being exposed to me in this state. He just stares at me wordlessly. His eyes are wide and fearful from seeing me, but I can also discern deep pain. I know deep pain when I see it. 

"Honestly Weasley, do you think I have been under the impression that you never cry? Everyone does at some point in time. So what is it now?" 

He swallows and fidgets. I offer my hand to him. I cannot tell him what I want to that openly. He looks at me again as if I am crazy, but then he takes my hand and I lift him to his feet. He's almost at my level now. 

"Potter is recuperating fine." I try to assure him. I know the boy looks ghastly stil, but he is getting better and better every single day. Ron waves that off as if it was the least thing on his mind. I am slightly surprised. Weasley had almost driven me up the wall until the day Potter settled and did not talk in his sleep anymore, worrying far too much and asking the same questions about his friend far too many times. 

That only leaves for the second choice. Perhaps now that Potter is on the mend emotions have hit Weasley about-- 

"Is it about Granger?" I ask, rather gently. I wish I could do a proper Albus imitation. He looks at me again with that muted sorrow that I can't face for too long and I can understand all too well. 

"We uh, we used to go steady." he says simply, and new tears come. I don't see them, because he turns away, but I don't need to. And in the silence of the new day, I don't need to be my usual self. I usually could be caught off guard in semi-lit places in those precious few minutes between night and early morning-- the minutes when it is not exactly yesterday and not yet today-- a few minutes out of reality that I can leave my everyday self behind. 

"I see." I swallow. "I know how you feel. I know there is no consolation. Nobody can dry those tears. You are entitled to shed them, Weasley, and don't be ashamed for that." 

Weasley is just staring me like a blinded owl. I am not even sure anything I tell him is getting across. But since I started, I may as well finish it. 

"You are entitled to grieve for her. You don't need to hide from me, and rediculous as it sounds, you can talk to me about her or anything else you might not want disclosed. I promice never to chide you about this. And I keep my promises." I tell him and I hand him a small chocolate from the Poppy's drawer. 

He still stands there staring at me, and I can't resist adding 

"That doesn't mean I will soften up on every other aspect of your behavior, Weasley, like standing there with your mouth open like a codfish." 

He nods and mutters a thank you and about turns to walk away. I think nothing more of it and start to go through the motions of checking what potions will be needed today, when I hear him again. 

"Professor?" 

I look up at him in question. He fidgets. 

"This year, Weasley." 

He whispers it. 

"Why are you so... different, uh, kind to a Gryffindor?" 

I almost want to laugh. It can't be possible that he still assigns so much value to this house or that. Instead I snort. 

"I am not kind to a -Gryffindor-. I am merely being human when present to human pain. You -are- human, are you not, Weasley?" 

He nods quickly again and this time he walks away. I think I caught the glimpse of a smirk. It's good that I didn't actually see it, for I cannot tell what that might mean. And if it's something good, fine. But if it's not, then I don't know how I will react, and I hate not to know what I will do in a given situation. 

More patients were able to be discharged today. I am glad and I don't keep in anyone that wants to leave and actually can if they are careful. As a matter of fact, by the end of the day there is no need for floating beds. I let Lupin handle the parents or other family that come to collect their loved ones. I don't think I can be part of all those emotions and thanks and tears and 'how can I thank you's. 

I am starting to worry about Potter again. He should have had more intervals of near-awareness and instead he's sleeping straight. Was I perhaps wrong in an evaluation and he is not getting better? Was I perhaps conceited like in my younger days and I have kept him here when he should actually be in St Mungo's? 

I am checking over him again, running a diagnosis with my wand. Everything seems to be better since last time I did the check, so why is he not waking up? 

I am therefore frantic enough not to pay attention to his face as I lean my ear on his chest to listen to the heartbeats that are far stronger, yet still not confident. And so I am caught in this compromising, for my tastes, position. 

"What... are you doing?" 

I shoot up so quickly my head swims. He is looking at me peering through eyes half closed with sleep and shortsightedness. He probably doesn't mean it accusingly. I know he doesn't mean it accusingly but lately my feelings tend to take over me in certain occasions and I take offence. 

"I am working hard while you are portraying Sleeping Beauty, Mr. Potter. That's what I am doing. Now if you don't mind I'd like to see why you didn't awake earlier. So kindly shut up about it." 

He does, for a while, and I hear his heart pick up in beats. I cover him up again and dare look into his face. It's blank. At least towards me. He does not acknowledge me as I treat him. I am not sure what I expected-- I didn't know I was expecting anything from the Potter boy, but I feel disappointed and hurt. I feel my glance go cold and I feel as if I am miles away from the reclining form before me. He asks numbly. 

"My godfather? Where is Sirius?" 

I know that numbness. I know it well because I had asked in the same way if Lily was alright when Albus called me to his office that night. I already knew everything had gone terribly wrong. Potter knows. Perhaps that is why he was so reluctant to wake up into this world. 

"What do you want me to tell you, Potter?" 

"I want you to tell me where my godfather is, that's what I want!" he lashes out at me. 

It's just too much. Why did I have to remember Lily at this particulat moment in time? Why does she have to stare at me through her son's eyes? I barely realise I am talking and when I have it is too late. 

"You bloody well know that Black is de--" I managed to check myself as I see the horror in the boy's eyes. Oh bloody hell. What have I done? Why didn't I call Lupin to this? What the hell was I thinking taking ho he behaved so seriously? 

I try to comfort him somewhat, to offer some support by touching his shoulder or something like that. Another mistake. He slaps my hand away with force I would not expect a boy to have, certainly not one in the condition Potter's in. But then again, Potter took down Voldemort. I should have expected it. And then he tells me something that makes a part of me die somewhere in what I call my soul. 

"I wish you had been in his place, Snape. I'd trade your life for his." 

_____________ 

weeeell. That went rather well don't you think? heh. 


	4. Answers, or semblence of

A/N: I update yet again! What IS the matter with me? I shouldn't spoil you expecially since I have been given no reward! 

Anyhow... Severus says he wants this over and done with so he can go back to JK's caring hands... 

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I don't know how I got to the quidditch pitch, but this is where I realise I am walking. It is snowing and I have no cape or anything to protect me from the cold. However, I barely acknowledge the cold. I know I should have expected nothing else than a reproach. After all, Black had been the closest thing to a father, and I had been the embodiment of evil to the boy. Why should now be any different? 

And yet I so ached for it to be different. I have allowed myself to drop guards. I have seen the new attitude people have towards me and I believed it. I am a fool. Of the worst kind. I sit at the lowest bench with my head in my hands. I was a fool to believe that I could have a different place in the hearts of those that know me. I was a fool to believe that things could be different now that Voldemort is dead. I still have the dark mark, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life. 

I don't know how long I have been there, but someone pulls a warm blankety thing over my shoulders. 

"You'll catch your death of cold out here, Severus. I expected better of you." Minerva sits beside me in the bench. 

"Everyone does, don't they? I am always found wanting in all kinds of measurements." I hear myself say. This is definately not like me. But Minerva has somehow turned into my old teacher, and I am her student now, not her colleague, in this wide, empty and peacful quidditch pitch that is white and pure. 

Minerva sighs near me. 

"The truth is, Severus, that you never do anything anyone would expect. Which makes you very interesting." 

"I thought the right word for that was 'annoying'" I sigh as I look over the pitch. 

"That too, sometimes." 

Silence ensues for a while, until emotions well up in me. 

"Why are you here, Minerva? Have you come to fetch me from my crazy flight to hell or something?" I ask her rather harshly. She looks nonplussed which makes me even more angry. 

"I have come to fetch you from the snow, true enough. And I have come to tell you something that I would like to stay between the two of us." 

The way she says it attracts my attention. She looks rather embarrassed or reluctant. I stop to listen to her. In other times, I wouldn't have bothered or I would even have turned her down is a rude way just because, but I feel so tired of keeping up a facade at all times. I realise how true the statement is. I am tired. In fact, my life has exhausted me. 

Minerva fidgets and then decides to say it all out in one breath if possible. 

"Severus, I believe that you are a very worthy person that has done a great deal and has never shied away from concequences. You have cleaned up your own mess whenever you could and you still atone for things that anyone would believe repaid. It's not right to feel like this because a hurt boy lashed out at you with words he did not mean. He is wounded at the soul, Severus, and he doesn't know how to handle that. You should--" 

"I know what I _should_ be feeling and doing Minerva. But that doesn't make it all better." 

I get up to go. The cold has finally started to get to me. Minerva stares at me as I walk away so intensely that I stop and turn.  
"But thank you, nonetheless." I tell her and then walk out of the quidditch pitch and don't turn back. 

I return to the castle but I don't go back to the infirmary. I don't want to see Harry Potter, or his condenscending look, or his wistful eyes when he looks at me and sees me instead of Black, as if I somehow stole his life to save my skin. Perhaps I should have killed him and pretend I found him that way. Perhaps. 

But then my debt to James, and my debt to Dumbledore would not be repaid and I would be worse than Voldemort or the lowest, bases assassin. No. It's better that the boy is alive and kicking -or slapping as the case might be- and that I am getting what I deserve. After all I was a bastard of a teacher, if nothing else. 

"Professor?" 

I turn around. Weasley. 

"Yes, Weasley? What have you botched now?" 

He blushes but seems steadfast. 

"You said to come to you whenever I needed." 

"Correct." I stay my tongue. A promice is a promice, even if I cannot handle Weasley's grief at the moment. I push my feelings aside to cater to the boy. He sighs. 

"I feel I can't remember her." 

"I see. And you are afraid that you will forget her." it's a statement-- I have been through the same things. After all, I loved Lily, even from afar, even when she had never realised it. She loved James, and that was enough. I could live if she was happy. After her death, the first year was torture, and all the agony I went through is something that I wouldn't wish on anyone. Not even my worst enemy. Weasley nods and bends his head, but I see a couple of tears dropping down to the floor. My mind races. I am glad he came to me with a problem. I am good at problem solving. I need anything that would take my mind off my former ruminations. 

And yes, an idea comes to me. 

"Follow me." I say and start towards the dungeons. I stands there for a while, uncertain. 

"Now Weasley." I say scathingly and he trails behind me. We go down to the dungeons, in the Potions class and right into my office. I leaf through some papers and pick a thick roll. I hand it to him and he looks at me oddly for a while, but then unrolls it. 

"It is not much, Weasley, but you will find solance in having something she spent hours preparing and has filled with her writing. There is a spell I can teach you that you can use on this parchment. It will reproduce the feel and smell of a person based on an object they handled. There is no way you will ever forget her, Weasley, but for the times you are in doubt, I dare say this can help." 

After the boy stomachs the spell, it is nighttime, and I decide to dare another night. So I lie down and sleep in my bed, and thankfully my sleep is still dreamless. Until the morning, when a nightmare assaults me... 

..._the infirmary is quiet, but a bed is filled with blood, and the blood fills the floors until there is no room left uncovered, until all the castle drowns in it--_

I wake up with a start. Potter. 

I ran all the way up to the infirmary. All is quiet, like in my dream, but a gleam of something metallic catches my eye. It comes from Potter's bed and I run there like a lunatic. The boy is trying to cut his carotid. It is my turn to slap him, and I do, hard enough so that the knife skids under the nearby cot and Potter is thrown back against the mattress. 

"What do you think you are doing, idiot boy?" 

Potter is looking at me with surprise through his teary eyes. I do not stop there. I grab his arm and raise his flannel pajama top. I put his fingers on the scar from the stab wound to the lungs that saved his life. 

"Do you feel this? Can you actually think with that pea brain you have got, Boy-Who-Lived?" 

Potter is still looking at me with surprise. I cannot understand what other feelings are there, but I do not stop my tirade. 

"Do you think you have a right to take your own life? You are mistaken. You have no right to kill yourself, Potter, and you know why? Because far too many people believed in you and paid with their lives for you! Your life does not belong to you, and you cannot touch it, do you understand me?" 

He starts crying. Bawling, to be exact. He covers his face with those thin, trembling hands and he starts crying in despair. I look around and there is no-one. What do I do? Do I risk another slap or do I call Lupin and risk the boy retrieving the knife? 

I prefer the former and with due hesitation, I let my hand rest on his shoulder as gently as I possibly can. Potter surprises me yet again. Instead of slapping my hand away, he leans against my chest and proceeds to cry there, clutching my robes tightly with his fists. I swallow and glance about again. Still nobody is in sight and I am stuck here not knowing what to do. What would Albus do? 

I embrace the boy and let him cry, and say nothing. By the time he has somehow subsided, I feel myself close enough to him to tell him 

"Harry.... you have held one of the heaviest burdens and not broken. The trust everyone put in you was worth it. You truly are a great wizard, and for that you should cherish your life, so that those that died in the name of the faith they put in you will be also honoured, and their sacrifice be meaningful." 

Harry swallows and looks up at me with his mother's eyes. I feel my heart ache, but I smile. For the first time, there is no contempt in the boy's eyes. There might even be-- acceptance? 

"Do you really mean that, Professor?" he asks me in a voice that is so young and so pained in the same time. I maintain my smile, however faint. 

"Harry... if the teacher that has given you the hardest time tells you this, it probably is true. But if you look into your heart, I believe that you will feel it yourself and not need me to assure you." 

He tries to mirror the smile and fails. I do not care. The boy doesn't loathe me and that is enough. Lily... after all these years, your son does not hate me anymore. 

The damn potion finds this point in time to wear off. Timing has always been against me, in all important moments of my time. My heart feels stabbed, and I turn to the side as I feel the coughing fit and the blood that accompanies it. My head swims and I feel as if I am under crucio. Then the infirmary goes into a spin, and I land on something hard before I lose consciousness. 

Damn. 

____________ 

*silence*..... what? You didn't think I'd let it without drama, did you? 


	5. A time to die or a time to live

A/N: Hello again! Possibly the last chapter of this part of my 'Severus as a narrator' series. Unless of course, you entice me to write more. Heh. 

_____________________ 

The pain is so much. My arm feels as if being chopped slowly in small pieces. My left arm. My heart is beating far too fast and my blood is boiling in my veins. My brain is so tired and I suspect that I am feeling only the highest levels of pain. 

I do not care. I don't even fight it. I am too tired, and there seems nothing more left for me to do in this life. Why should I bother to put the time and energy in returning in a world I do not particularly cherish and that does not particularly like me either? 

And aside that, it looks like the best moment to die, if you think about it. I am redeemed in the world, I have saved the Boy-Who-Lived, Minerva thinks highly of me -and- has confessed that openly, and finally, Harry doesn't hate me anymore. Or at least at that moment when he cried against my chest he didn't. It was a nice, fleeting moment. I don't want to wake up and see him frowning and suspicious and hateful towards me again. I don't want to see or hear him believe that it is a shame that I survived someone else. It is perfect, to leave this life with his accepting glance and half-effort of smiling at me, and leave the illusion unmarred. 

But just like anything I really want, it is not allowed me the easy, effortless way. Some chump wizard is trying to save me and is frustrating me to hell and back in the process. Who asked them to interfere? If they manage to bring me back to consciousness, I will curse them all with my first conscious breath. I swear. 

Even greater waves of pain assault me and I groan, trying to clench my teeth. I feel the acrid taste of blood. Oh gods. I have probably oozed blood from my mouth. I hate being seen in states like this. What the hell are they doing to me to allow for all this pain? It better not be Lupin's way of taking revenge about the wolfbane potion's taste. I'll make it ten times fouler when I am able. 

Sound reaches my mind. I can hear what is going on although I am pretty sure I am typically still unconscious. I have no control over my faculties and I cannot open my eyes. But I can somehow hear. I can hear myself groaning. I didn't groan like that even when I was under crucio. What IS the matter with me? 

Then I hear voices and decide to take a bit of my time to listen in. I am in the perfect state to eavesdrop. 

_"I cannot give you any promices, Headmistress. This is ancient Dark Magic we are dealing with, it will not fade away just because You-Know-Who is dead."_

_"Can't you just call him Voldemort, even post-humusly, for crying out loud?"_

I stop trying to decide if 'post-humously' is a valid word when I realise it is an -angry- Remus Lupin that has been talking like this. Most interesting. He seems actually worried about me. Could that actually be true? That they still want me saved or, as one would put it dramatically, pried from the clutches of death even when I am no longer useful as a spy against anyone and I have lost my irreplacable qualities with the Dark Lord's downfall? I was always under the impression that they would allow me to die and not be too flabberghasted about it. I can't hear Harry. He probably is not even in the infirmary anymore. And certainly not interested in me that much. Understandable. I marvel at him for accepting me even for that fleeting moment. 

Another voice attracts my attention. I believe it must be quite a few hours later than the last bit of conversation I listened in. 

_"So it is true. Severus Snape is deathly ill. I'll prepare an obituary."_

_"How can you say that? The man is a hero!"_

_"Poppycock. It's all conjectures. He's at best a has-been deatheater and he'll be lucky to get a neutral obituary from me. Make sure the secretary keeps it formal and not too effusive."_

_"As you wish, Minister Fudge."_

_"He doesn't look to be suffering that much. Are we done with the visit?"_

__

I wouldn't expect anything less than that lowlife Cornelius Fudge. Not suffering much. I'd be glad to give you a bloody demonstration of how little I am suffering you little-- 

A stab of pain stops me from actually thinking out the obscenity I had in mind. Minister Fudge is the embodiment of what I fear people will think upon looking at me in the state I am. Fortunately I couldn't care less about Fudge personally. But what if others think that as well? 

I would rather die than hear that sort of talk from anyone else. So I set my mind to start getting through with the plan. I sense my body convulsing and my left arm burns hellishly. I feel I can't breathe. That's probably because I need to cough up blood and I am resting on my back. All the better; I'll die sooner. Perhaps if I am lucky, I'll encounter Albus on the 'would enter here if you were not a bastard in life' tour in heaven before thrown in the same pit as Voldemort and Lucius. 

_"Blast you Severus! Don't give up, we are so close!"_

Lupin again. Well, let him try. I am dying, and that's final. No bleeding heart Remus can stop me. 

Or can he? 

I can feel reflexively coughing up and spitting blood as I am turned to the side. There goes the 'fast-served death deal' I was cooking up for myself. The pain assaults me full blast again and I feel a cold hand clasping my burning one. Somehow the cool sensation that is so relieving to my forearm ensnares my soul and doesn't let it quit my body. 

Maybe I underestimated Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts skills. I am thrown back into my body and I feel at least two magical flows from two separate wands cast charms on me. Minerva and Lupin, united. Peachy. I can't even die when I choose to. 

As soon as they make sure I will not be pulling the same stunt again, they leave to research more spells to fight the degenerative power of the dark mark. Imbeciles. I do not need intricate spells to be rejuvenated. I need a good reason to live, and truly, I find none, as there is no obligation binding me to life anymore. But a little studying never hurt anyone-- not even accomplished professors. So let them try. At least when I am dead, they will not feel that they didn't put their all into it. 

_"Professor."_

I almost do not hear the whisper, but as soon as I realise who it is, I try with every ounce of my remaining energy to focus and not miss a word. 

_"I know you can hear me. I doubt you'd let people talk in your presence and be oblivious."_

Clever assumption. 

_"You did not let me die, even when I wanted to. And you drummed sense into me even when I was deaf to sensible words."_

That is also quite true. 

_"I am going to return the favour. I have been studying. I have used your old Potions lab."_

Oh, great. 

_"I left it in a mess. You gotta get up to deduct points."_

I feel some incling of anger and I feel my head lifted by a set of two hands. Another person feeds me a potion and makes sure I swallow. 

_"Don't die Professor. I didn't mean what I said. I wouldn't trade your life with anyone's. I am sorry. Please, just please don't die."_

__

_"Yes, Professor. I am sorry too. I will never call you a greasy git again."_

Trust Weasley to ruin a perfectly touching moment between myself and Potter. I need to deduct points for _that_. 

Then I hear chanting. They are repeating words over and over again. Both of them. 

"Reverto Morsmordre! Reverto Morsmordre!" 

The words are burned in my conscious as I feel my arm being run through with power that I hadn't felt ever since I was first initiated as a deatheater. It is agonizing and it reaches the depth of my heart and mind. I know I am writhing in the bed and soon, as the chanting grows stronger so does my writhing develop into spasms. My eyes open involuntarily, and I see over me the dark mark lingering just like any curse does when about to be broken. Two silvery lightning bolts attack it again and again until it shatters in a million little pieces and is gone forever. I look upon Harry and Ron. They look exhausted and ready to keel over, but they are looking at me worriedly. I try to rub my eyes to ease the headache. I realise I can move my left arm very little, and it is bleeding from a deep bloody hole where the dark mark used to be. I think I am going to cry with joy seeing the last attestation to my criminal past obliviated. 

I try to speak. My voice is weak, barely audible. 

"Potter... sit down. Weasley... you too." I stop to catch my breath and shut my eyes for a second. 

"Professor.. you're awake." Potter says with disbelief and relief in the same time. 

"Obviously, Potter." I try to retort but it comes out as an endearment, and even if I cannot smile, I can tell from the expressions of the two students looking at me that my eyes show how much I appreaciate what they have done to me; not so much for saving my life, no. 

Just for giving me something to believe in again. 

___________________ 

and that's it. I am not so sure about the spell. I have never done Latin. In any case, there you go. I'd appreciate to know what you think of this. I do believe that this is the last chapter of this story, or this part, anyway. If there is to be a sequel, I need to know that people will want to hear more of 'Narrator Snape', and specifically what they'd like him to narrate. Okay? Is that a deal? Good! see you soon, then! 


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